


Abnormals

by defyaugury



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: F/M, Fluff, M/M, Mutant Powers, Smut, Superpowers AU, klance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-04 22:52:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11000676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defyaugury/pseuds/defyaugury
Summary: Keith's on the run. From what, he won't say. But he will say he can do things most people can't. It isn't until he runs into someone else that can do things like him that he realizes he isn't alone. There are others like him. Others that aren't normal.





	1. Prologue

***

He was in pain. Extraordinary pain unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. He screamed, but no one could hear him. Then, _he_ was the one giving the pain. Inflicting it on others, listening to their pain. He did it so he wouldn't have to feel it, feel as needles drove into his bones, as hands groped and pulled at his skin, and electricity was shot straight into his skull. He was surrounding by it, by the pain. Surrounded by those he'd hurt, by those that'd hurt him. There was no escape. There was never any escape.

***

Keith woke with a jolt, the frigid night air whistling in through the glassless windows, hitting his face like a knife. The plastic tarps they'd pinned over the gaping square holes to act as some sort of barrier rustled in the wind, letting shafts of moonlight fall across the floor. The abandoned apartment building was quiet as a grave—he couldn't even hear cars, they were so far up. It was ten stories, at least, was what Rolo said—easier to hide from the passersby on street level. 

The cold concrete floor cut through his clothes from where he lay sleeping on the ground. All around him were sleeping bodies, swaddled in sleeping bags or moth-eaten blankets stollen from trash bins. In the corner, he saw a child no older than three cuddled in their mother's arms. Two sleeping bags over, he saw a couple, two girls that clutched each other's hand tightly even in sleep. Nyma and Rolo lay next to him, their breathing deep as they continued to slumber. A few scattered bags and shopping carts resting among the sleeping bodies that lay on the floor—the few possessions any of them had, stuffed into trash bags or tattered suitcases.

It was then that Keith realized what had woke him—the sound of footsteps—dozens of them—stampeding up the stairwell that lead to their floor. He barely had a second to realize what was happening—what was coming—before the stairwell door burst open and the world was filled with gunshots and screaming.


	2. Chapter 2

Keith panted. Hot, heavy breaths spilled from him, clouding the air in front of his face. His cheeks were flushed, his body on fire, and he could feel every inch of his skin pulsing with a burning, aching need. He let out a desperate grunt and picked up the speed.

He was running. Keith was running for his life, whipping down alleyways and around corners, his feet slapping the pavement so hard they hurt. He could hear the blood roaring in this ears, the pounding of his heart so hard it made his chest ache. He had to get out of here—he  _had_  to.

If he didn't, he was going to die. If he didn't, they were going to kill him.

Signs flashed by Keith on either side, retro printed ones that might have been bright and colorful at one point, but were little more than faded memories by now, showing outdated ads for smart phones and Blackberries. He'd passed out of the busy districts miles ago, nothing but empty streets and broken street lamps in front of him now. He spared a glance around him, the heavy rain making his hair stick to his face as it turned the streets slick. He didn't recognize any of the street signs.

 _Shit_.

A half-standing building to his right suddenly shifted, the rubble and stone tumbling into the street. Keith skirted it to keep from being crushed. He could hear them behind him as he leapt over a crumbing and forgotten road block—an entire unit of soldiers in black armor and the world GALRA written in bright yellow block letters across their badges. Heavy boots pounded on the pavement and the static of official-looking communicators sputtered every few seconds. He could see the reflection of bulky guns in a passing shop's dark windows.

 _Well_ , he thought miserably.  _At least I lost the drone._

But that wouldn't really matter much if he couldn't find a place to hide soon. His chest was searing with pain from lack of oxygen and he kept stumbling as his legs gave out from under him. He gripped his shoulder where the jagged piece of a fence had caught him earlier, blood seeping into his torn jacket. The rain had soaked him through, making him shiver violently. He couldn't even guess how long he'd been at this, outrunning and out-maneuvering the hoard of men behind him. His body was starting to give up; he wouldn't be able to make it much longer.

Keith saw a flash of light. Then another. His heart leapt into his throat as he blasted around another corner to find a new district open up in front of him. Roads and alleys twisted in every which way in a dizzying array of colored banners and multi-national flags. Crowds filled the air with white noise as music blasted from stereos on balconies. Rain thundered on tin roofs, umbrellas of dazzling colors keeping it at bay for the people on the streets. Buildings leaned every which way, stacked haphazardly atop each other like toy blocks. Bright lights and flashing neons shone from every angle, the rooftops strung with garlands of glittering broken glass and out-dated computer parts.

Relief flooded Keith. Maybe he could loose them in the crowds, or find a crowded bar to hide in. His lungs were screaming at him to stop and catch some air and the cold rain was starting to make him shiver violently.

Filled with a sudden burst of new hope, Keith dove into the crowds, twisting between people and vaulting over vendor carts. People shouted, doing their best to move out of the way. Keith rounded a corner. He could hear the men in black behind him, could hear orders being shouted, could hear the thunder of so many boots hitting pavement.

Keith chanced a look over his shoulder, only to find the men in black weren't cutting through the crowds like piss through snow like they usually did. For some reason, people weren't diving out of the way to avoid the men with huge, hulking guns. If anything, civilians seemed to be shouting back, crowding the streets even further. Slightly baffled, Keith rounded another corner.

Five minutes later, and the horde of men behind him had narrowed down to a handful thanks to the crowds and this district's winding maze of streets and alleys. Despite the burning pain in his chest, and the throbbing in his bleeding shoulder, Keith smirked. A handful he could handle.

Keith had managed to lead them out of the busier parts of the district and onto less crowded streets. The rain was heavier here, unhindered by crowds and so many towering buildings. The air was hazy and Keith was painfully aware how important every movement he made from this point on was. He could already feel his body shutting down on him—his left arm with the cut in the shoulder going numb.

He flung himself around a corner, his back slamming into a shadowed wall before trying to calm his breathing. Keith clutched at his shoulder as he waited, his heart pounding so hard, he swore he could hear it over the din of the rain.

In the next moment, the soldiers marched right by Keith's tiny little alley as if it were never even there. A few more seconds, and the sound of their boots faded away into the rain. Keith had to clamp a hand over his mouth to stifle the cry of relief that nearly escaped him.

But he wasn't safe just yet—not by a long shot. Glancing to his right, Keith found his chosen alley crowded with towers of wooden crates—most of them worn and old and rotten—but for the most part, creating a pretty sturdy-looking ladder.

In minutes, Keith was running across connected rooftops, crouched low and using the rain as a smoke screen to hide in. Coming to the edge of a building, he crouched and let himself drop over the side and back into the busy part of the district between the narrow space of two buildings.

The landing jarred Keith's elbow, forcing him to let out a hiss of pain. The faint smell of food hit him, making his stomach twist painfully, and he could hear the distant clatter of pots and pans banging against one another. He must be near a restaurant. Dragging in breaths like he was dying—and Keith had to wonder if he was at this point—he leaned back against the cold brick wall of his new salvation, letting the rain slide down his face.

He'd done it. Somehow, someway, he'd managed to escape.

He'd been on the run for—how long? Hours? Weeks? Days? He couldn't remember. The only thing he could remember was the sounds of screaming. The booming bang that had resounded through his, Rolo's, and Nyma's hiding place when the men and black had broken down the door. The toddler being dragged away from their mother by a fist in their hair as they cried. The couple—still clutching hands—as they ran out an open window and into empty air rather than be taken. The spray of blood as Rolo hit the ground and Nyma screaming— _screaming_ —at Keith to run as she cradled the dying squatter in her arms.

Still breathing heavily, Keith's eyes fluttered open. He used the arm he could still feel to grope around his jacket pocket, fingers closing around a slightly soaked, but mostly still okay slip of paper. He let out a small, relieved sigh at knowing it was still there.

A hand landed on his shoulder.

Keith was alert in seconds. His elbow shot out, connecting with something solid and in the next instance, his feet were spread, his heart in his throat, and his knife in his hand, the tip pointed right at the throat of his would-be assailant.

A stranger stood in front of Keith, a hand clamped over his eye and a bag of spilt garbage at his feet.

"What the _fuck_ , man?" He was about to say more, but was cut off when he realized a knife was pointed at his artery.

In seconds, Keith evaluated the situation.

The stranger was tall—a few inches taller than Keith—lanky, too, with broad shoulders that lead to gangly arms and legs. He was tan, like his family came from somewhere south, with short hair and brilliant blue eyes that seemed to glow at Keith through the rain. A stained apron was wrapped around his waist and a name tag flashed at his collar, though Keith couldn't read it.

In any other circumstance, Keith bet he could take this guy no problem—but as it was, he could barely keep his arms from shaking as he held them at the ready. But still, he had the knife.

A split second later, Keith heard it, the sound of boots, of men in armor shouting orders for people to scatter.

 _No_. They couldn't have found him. He'd escaped, he'd lost them.

The stranger raised an eyebrow. The rain had soaked his apron and was making his hair stick to his forehead.

"Buddies of yours?" he asked.

Keith chanced a glance over his shoulder at the street beyond the alley. Any moment, they were going to come around that corner and find him. And then he'd be dead—just like Shiro and now just like Rolo.

"Let me help you."

Keith turned back to find the stranger still staring at him. The tip of Keith's knife had begun to shake and he wasn't sure for how much longer he could hold it aloft. He swallowed, blinking rain out of his eyes.

"Wh—Why should I t-trust you?" Keith asked, his teeth chattering from the rain and the cold.

The stranger raised an eyebrow. "You see anyone else around willing to help?"

Keith blinked, his mind racing. He could hear the men in armor, could hear them getting closer. He thought of Rolo and Nyma. He thought of the other squatters in the abandoned apartment. He thought of the sounds of gunfire. He had no reason to trust this stranger—and yet, if he refused he'd mostly likely be dead. If he accepted, there was only the slightly less chance of ending up dead.

The thought of simply bolting crossed his mind, be he knew without even moving, that if he tried, he wouldn't make it a block without collapsing in the street.

Very slowly, Keith lowered his knife, his eyes still trained on the stranger in front of him.

The stranger cocked a grin and Keith immediately began to doubt his decision.

"Great," the stranger said, clapping his hands together. "Just one thing we have to do first."

Keith's brows drew in to meet. He began to ask what it was, but was abruptly interrupted by the stranger punching him in the face.

* * *

Keith faded in and out of consciousness. First, he was someplace bright where he could smell the most delicious food he'd ever experienced. Then he was back outside in the rain, slung over someone's back. He could hear the stranger's voice, could hear his laugh. _That dick_ , was all Keith could think before unconsciousness claimed him again. He had the vague feeling of being moved, the sounds around him changing, though he wasn't sure where he was. And then he was gone.

Keith woke with a jolt, covered in sweat—or was that rain?

His first instinct sent his hand to the knife in his boot, only to realize it wasn't there. Keith spun around, eyes wide as he drank in where he was. Walls closed down on him from every side, swallowing him in darkness. He was trapped, he was crowded and imprisoned. He was...in a broom cupboard.

Mop and broom handles stood cluttered together in a corner. Rags were heaped on shelves that reached to the top, scattered with a number of other cleaning products. Keith's jacket was hanging from the door handle, but when he reached for it, pain split through his shoulder. He hissed, grabbing at the wound he'd completely forgotten about only to find that someone had bandaged it—and rather expertly, now that he looked at it.

Working gingerly around his injured shoulder, Keith slipped his jacket on and quickly checked the pockets, letting out a sigh of relief as he found the slip of paper was still tucked securely inside.

Sniffing, Keith winced at the dull throb that wrecked his face. His nose hurt like hell. He touched it gently, already feeling the bruising, the swelling, but nothing broken. At least whatever blood had been there had been cleaned away—but shit, it felt like his entire face was swollen.

Keith suddenly remembered _why_ his nose was hurting like he'd face-slammed into a wall. He remembered running from the men in armor, of running into the stranger in the alley who'd offered him help. He remembered being punched in the face.

Keith let out a low growl—if he ever saw that stranger again, he was going to kill him.

It was then that he noticed a blanket had been draped over him as he slept on floor of the cupboard. And, inches to the right of his leg, a plate of food that'd gone cold long before now. His stomach clutched at the sight and he was wolfing it down in five seconds flat. Half-way through the plate, Keith paused, the thought of the food being possibly poisoned or drugged having finally caught up to him. He looked down at the plate, only half-heaping with food now. Well, if there was something in the food, he'd surely already eaten by now. Keith gave a shrug and continued stuffing his face. There was no reason to let it go to waste.

He knew Shiro would've had his ass for such a thoughtless mistake, but honestly, Keith was so hungry, Shiro could suck it for all he cared. And it wasn't exactly like Shiro would find out anyways, being six feet under ground.

Five minutes later, Keith found himself neither roofied nor dead, and had tentatively tried the door to the cupboard, only to find it wasn't even locked, before quietly creeping out the open door. Keith blinked, taking in his surroundings.

He was in a spaceship—no, wait, that was stupid. Keith paused, letting his eyes focus through the dark. Despite what rest he'd gotten on the floor of the broom cupboard, he was still exhausted, his mind running at a infuriatingly slow pace as he gathered his surroundings.

As Keith slowly came to the realization that he wasn't in a spaceship, he also realized that he was in a kitchen. The only reason he'd been thrown off at first was because everything was so _clean_ , with at least a dozen different metal surfaces shining back at him like the polished inside of a futuristic alien spaceship. Not that Keith had much experiences being in kitchens, but this one looked much larger than a normal, home kitchen—meaning it could only be a prep space for a restaurant. Stoves, clean and sparkling lined one wall under an armory of pots and pans that hung from the ceiling and along the wall. Ovens, shinny and cold, lined another wall, as if waiting expectantly to gobble up the next dish that wandered too close to their mouths.

A scrubbed wooden table stood in the middle, laden with at least three towers of cutting boards, and an entire squadron of knives hanging from a magnetic strip that ran along the side of the table. Without thinking, Keith automatically plucked the largest one from between its fellow soldiers and tucked the blade securely into his boot.

Keith was half-way across the kitchen, hunched in a crouch, when he heard it—the tell-tale sounds of someone moving a floor above. He froze, ears and eyes alert. In the next second, he could hear a door open from somewhere outside the kitchen, followed by a yellow light that filtered through the tiny window of what must've been the door that lead to the rest of the restaurant.

Keith didn't even evaluate his options before he moved, instincts kicking in to find the most appropriate hiding spot.

* * *

The door to the kitchen swung open with a creak that sounded like a scream in the stillness of the night. Lightly fell across the floor in a shaft, giving the cold and empty kitchen a warm glow before the shadow of a figure obscured most of it.

Keith crouched down hiding behind the edge of the hiding spot atop a large refrigerator he'd managed to crawl up into. He could hear the sound of footsteps padding across the kitchen floor before the creak of another door opening reached him. At the risk of being seen, Keith peeked over his edge.

It was the stranger, the one from the alley. His back was to him, but Keith recognized the lanky figure and broad shoulders as the stranger peered into the now empty broom cupboard. Clad in nothing but a bathrobe and some carpet slippers, Keith couldn't help but think it ridiculous that _this_ was the stranger that had knocked him out and dragged him to some unknown place. But still, Keith couldn't help but admit that this stranger—whoever he was—was dangerous. Without a sound, Keith's fingers found the kitchen knife he'd stashed in his boot and drew it, the wicked edge glinting in the soft light coming from the door.

The stranger turned and Keith nearly fell from his hiding spot. A face mask—an honest to god _face mask_ —covered the stranger's face in a green, slightly sickly-looking, goop. Keith hardly managed to keep in his snort of laughter at the sight, but that didn't seem to stop the stranger from hearing him.

In the next moment, blue eyes flicked up to Keith's hiding place, that gaze practically glowing in the shadows of the empty kitchen.

"What? Are you a cat or something?"

In the next second, Keith dropped down from atop the fridge, landing lightly on his feet, knife at the ready, all mirth from before having vanished.

The stranger didn't look impressed. "So this is the thanks I get for saving and feeding your sorry ass?"

"Who are you?" Keith said, his knife and free arm raised in front of his face in a block, just like Shiro had taught him.

"Lance," the stranger said without preamble. "Also known as the most dashing, gorgeous, and suave busboy this side of the city. Now can I ask why you're trying to kill me every few minutes?"

Keith barely noticed that the stranger—well, Lance, he supposed—hadn't even bothered to ask for his name.

"Are you GALRA?" Keith asked.

Lance the stranger raised an eyebrow. "No, I'm Cuban."

Keith lunged forward, seizing the stranger by the front of his stupid bathrobe and shoving him back against the cutting table, his knife brandished.

"Woah, woah, woah! What're—?"

"Stop screwing around!" Keith hissed. "Are you or are you not working for the GALRA?"

"The _what?_ " Lance yelped, shoving Keith off him. "Dude, you're crazy!"

Keith stumbled back, his head spinning. Apparently, even with a good night's rest and a full meal, Keith was still exhausted. The room spun for a second and the next thing he knew, he was on the ground, his wounded shoulder throbbing horribly as he leaned against an oven door. He had to close his eyes for a moment. Shiro would've killed him for letting his guard down so easily, but he was so tired.

Keith heard the sound of footsteps as he tried to get the world to stop spinning for a moment. They stopped right in front of him.

"Look, buddy, I don't know what your whole deal is, but if you want me to help you, you need to, like, chill or something."

Keith cracked his eyes open to find the stranger—Lance—crouched in front of him, still in that ridiculous bathrobe and face mask.

Keith wheezed in a breath. "I didn't ask for your help."

Lance rolled his eyes. "Well, as far as I can tell it's the only thing you have at the moment. So you can stop being so emo and gross about it and take it or you can give me back that knife and leave—though, I have to say, at the moment you don't look like you'd last long out on those streets."

Keith glared at the stranger. He hated this—he hated all of this. He hated how vulnerable he was, how exhausted he was and therefore how few options that left him with. He hated being at the mercy of this _ridiculous_ looking Cuban and his stupid face mask. He hated the fact that Shiro was dead, and the fact that Nyma and Rolo probably were now, too. He hated that any of this had to happen. And most of all he hated this stranger that had punched him in the face and left him with nothing but an ultimatum to trust him or die.

Keith heaved in a few more breaths as the rest of the kitchen finally seemed to stop spinning. "If I stay, can I keep the knife?"

The stranger rolled his eyes. "Hell no. But you can have a skewer if that makes you feel any better." Lance then plucked the knife from Keith's hand without meeting much resistance. He pulled Keith's uninjured arm over his shoulders before hauling him to his feet. Keith pulled away as soon as he was standing. He needed this stranger's help, he'd admit that—but he wasn't _that_ pathetic. Lance simply gave him a look and shrugged.

"The guys that were chasing you earlier came knocking around on doors today," Lance explained as Keith tentatively tested his balance. "But my boss chased them away. And trust me, if you had to face her wrath, you wouldn't be coming back anytime soon. Still, I didn't think it was too safe for you to leave the restaurant yet—"

"Which is why you put me in the broom cupboard," Keith said flatly.

"Um, first of all," Lance said. "It's a closet, not a cupboard. Second of all, yes, I did. And you're probably going to have to spend the rest of the night there unless you want to camp out in the freezer."

Keith glared at Lance. "First you punch me and then you throw me in a broom cupboard like I'm some mop?"

"Broom _closet_ ," Lance corrected. "And you're lucky I was the one to find you and help you rather than one of those goons!"

"Help me?!" Keith yelled. "You punched me in the _face_!"

" _After_ you elbowed me in the eye _and_ held a knife to me!" Lance yelled back.

"I didn't know who you were!"

"That's no excuse for shitty manners!"

"I was running for my life!" Keith argued. "Sorry if I couldn't offer my name and a handshake!"

Lance paused, the last admission catching him off-guard apparently. "Woah, wait, your _life?_ Just who were those guys chasing you?"

Keith suddenly felt his face grow hot. _Shit_. He'd said too much. Shiro had always chastised him for being a hothead, and now he knew why. He never knew when to stop.

Keith looked away, refusing to look Lance in the eyes. "I don't know."

Lance narrowed his eyes. "What was it you called me earlier? Calra?"

"Look, I don't know who they are—"

"Well then why were they chasing you?"

"I don't know—"

"You don't _know?_ If they want to kill you it must be for a reason—"

"Look, I just don't know, okay!" Keith yelled, slamming his hand on the table.

Silence swelled to fill the kitchen again, empty ovens and cold stoves watching the two of them quietly.

Lance watched Keith. "So you don't know who they are?"

Keith still refused to look at Lance. He shook his head.

"And you don't know why they're chasing you?"

Keith paused. His fingers twitched, reaching for his knife out of reflex, searching for that familiar comfort. Again, he shook his head.

Lance let out a sigh, leaning against the counter in the middle of the kitchen. "Well can you at least tell me if trying to help you was a good decision?"

"Probably not," Keith said. It was the truth. If the men in black—the GALRA—found that Lance was hiding Keith, they'd probably kill him, too.

"Well," Lance let out another sigh. "The boss tries to kill me nearly every other day, so danger's not really anything new to me. In fact, some would say it's my middle name."

Keith finally looked up at that, slightly shocked.

Before Keith even realized it, he was laughing. Laughing hard enough to clutch his side and slide back down to the floor. Out of everything that had happened to him in the past few days—hell in the past few months, and he had the luck to come across this idiot. He couldn't believe it. Here he was, telling this stranger that his life would be in danger for helping Keith and he goes and make a joke about it. The absurdity of it was just...ridiculous. He couldn't help it.

Lance, for what he was worth, looked slightly shocked by such a positive reaction to his cheesy joke, but seemed pleased all the same. By the time Keith managed to stop rolling on the floor with mirth, he was so exhausted, he wasn't even sure he could stand. Lance had to pull him to his feet again, letting the other boy lean against him for support as he guided Keith back to the broom cupboard.

Strictly speaking, Keith still didn't really trust Lance—he was still a complete stranger after all—but he figured Lance had plenty of opportunity to kill or rat Keith out before now, and yet, Keith was still here. He still knew nothing about this scrawny boy with the too blue eyes and too wide smile, but he figured a tentative trust could hold out for now.

"Your boss," Keith said as he leaned against Lance. The other boy's hand was on his hip to help steady him and it felt warm and comforting. "She knows about me then?"

Lance let out a bark of a laugh. "Yeah right! If she found out I was keeping an orphan in the broom closet and feeding him free food, she'd have my ass on a platter. No, she just hates authority figures trying to mess with her income—just like everyone else in this town."

Keith paused. "You're the only one that knows I'm here?"

Lance nodded. "Yeah—Well, me and Hunk. But he won't tell anyone."

A few distant alarms went off in Keith's head at that. This stranger had told _no one_ about him? Not only that, if anyone had walked in on Keith passed out in that broom cupboard, he'd most likely be fired? Keith glanced at Lance, clad in the type of cheesy face mask he'd only seen in movies, with eyes that burned a brilliant blue in the dark. Just who _was_ this guy that'd he'd risk his job and possibly his life to save some stranger off the street?

"So," he said as he stumbled into the cupboard, Lance finally letting him go. Everything was growing fuzzy with exhaustion. Keith couldn't remember feeling so relaxed before. "You were the one that left me the food?"

"Yep!—Well, not me personally, my friend made it and left it for you. You should meet him tomorrow—he's the one that carried you in here. He's Hunk."

Keith finally fell into the single, slightly sad blanket on the floor, pulling his jacket securely around himself. "Hunk of what?" he asked, exhaustion settling down on him once again and making him delirious.

Lance let out a snort. "No, that's his name."

"Oh," Keith muttered, leaning his head back against the cupboard wall, already on the cusp of sleep. "Where am I, any ways?"

" _Todos los Tipos_ , best restaurant this side of the country."

"Hmmm," Keith said, a small smile curling at his lips. "Toto, like the dog."

Keith didn't get a chance to hear what Lance said in response because in the next second, he was asleep.

* * *

***

That night, Keith dreamed of Shiro. It wasn't quite a normal dream, either. Nothing came horrifically distorted, or happened in the wrong order. It didn't feel like there were pieces missing or people that weren't supposed to be there. It was more like a memory being played in his head, rather than a dream.

Keith was with Shiro, the two of them standing on the edge of a cliff as they watched the sun sink below a far horizon. Looking around, Keith realized he'd never been here before, he didn't recognize any of it. Looking up, he found Shiro towering over him, like he'd just lost half his height. Keith looked down to find his hands were tiny with a child-like chubbiness to them he hadn't seen in years.

He looked around again. It felt like he was seeing everything through a filter, with all the edges blurred and the wind from the cliff's edge avoiding him like he had some kind of a barrier around him. And yet, it felt like the realest dream Keith had ever had.

He jumped when Shiro's hand landed on top of his head and ducked out of the way. He didn't like being touched—even if it was Shiro.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

Keith looked up at Shiro, who was still gazing out at the horizon.

"The sun," Shiro clarified, his voice strangely distant, like Keith was hearing it through a tunnel. "You know what it's really made of don't you?" he asked, looking down at Keith.

Keith shook his head.

"It's made of fire." Shiro crouched down to be on Keith's level. "Just like you," he said, poking Keith in the chest. Keith giggled and squirmed away. "And that fire is the source of all life," Shiro explained. "Remember that, okay, Keith? Fire doesn't just destroy, it can create, and it can bring joy, too. Can you do that? Can you remember that, for me?"

Keith was about to nod when the sun disappeared. He looked up to find a massive cloud had swallowed the horizon. Though he couldn't feel it, the wind picked up, whipping the grass on the cliff back and forward like a weapon. Fear gripped him as the storm approached, roiling with chaos through the air. When he looked back at Shiro, he was startled to find him looking older, with a scar slashed across his face he'd never seen before.

"Keith, I need you to do something for me," Shiro said, his voice sounding more distant than ever. "I need you to find me."

Keith shook his head. "But you're dead!" He had to shout to be heard over the wind.

Shiro shook his head. "I'm not. I need you to find me, Keith."

"I don't understand!" Keith screamed. "Where are you?" The wind was so strong now, it shook the cliff.

"Find me!"

"Shiro!"

The next thing Keith knew, the wind had picked Shiro up and flung him over the side of the cliff as if he were nothing. Keith screamed, throwing himself down to look over the edge, to reach for Shiro, to save him. Only, when he looked over the edge, Shiro was gone. So was the cliff, the storm, everything was gone.

Instead, he was back in the abandoned apartment, surrounded by men in armor. Nyma and Rolo were on the ground, Nyma screaming at him.

" _Go, Keith! You have to find it! Don't stop until you find it!_ "

There came a flash of light, the sounds of gunfire.

***

Keith woke to the blackness of a dark broom cupboard. He shifted in his small, one-blanket nest and automatically looked to his left, expecting to see Nyma and Rolo snoozing right next to him. All he found were dirty mops and used rags. The door was closed and he was alone.

Keith couldn't help the tight feeling that wrapped around his chest at their absence. He hadn't had much time to think about it since the attack, but now that he did—he just wanted it to stop. He could see them, clear as day—Rolo and Nyma smiling at him as the three of them lounged on the top of the abandoned apartment building, not a care in the world. Rolo teaching Keith to fight dirty, the way Shiro never would. Nyma showing him how to shut off the power to a security system of a house in order to steal some food and clean clothes. Nyma pressing a crumpled piece of paper into Keith's palm, accompanied by an urgent whisper. Rolo, hitting the ground in a spray of blood as people screamed and gunfire roared around them. And Nyma, Nyma clutching Rolo like he was dying, screaming at Keith to run to leave them behind, to leave them to—

Keith heaved a painful breath, his chest aching with memories as he fumbled with the pocket of his jacket, fishing out the slip of paper Nyma had given him. Squinting through the dim, almost non-existent light of the cupboard, Keith could only just make out Rolo's scrawled writing spelling out one word:

_Voltron_

This was it, he realized, staring at the so unassuming piece of paper. This was what Rolo and Nyma had died for—their last wish for him to find Voltron. Only, Keith had no idea what Voltron was.

Keith let out a sigh and ran a hand through his hair, thinking back to his dream with Shiro. He'd never had a dream like that before, one that'd seemed so real, so consequential. And even now, the images and sounds refused to fade away like most dreams after waking. It was engrained in his memory like a scar.

All this time, he'd assumed Shiro to be dead. That's why he'd spent so much time with Rolo and Nyma instead of out there, searching for him. For nearly a year, Keith had assumed, Keith had known there was no way Shiro could still be alive. And yet, something had nestled deep within Keith's conscious—what if Shiro wasn't dead? What if that dream meant something and had come to him to tell him something like some sort of sign? Or like a message.

Keith opened his eyes, staring into the endless darkness. If there was a chance, even just a chance, that Shiro was alive, that Shiro was alive and that Keith could find him—well, there was no way he could ignore that.

He brought Rolo's note up to his face, squinting at it through the dark as he came to a decision.

He needed to get to Shiro. Whatever Voltron was, it could wait.

Keith snapped his fingers. Rolo's note ignited instantly, and in a second, the paper was gone, burned to ash as the flame continued to hover, suspended in air right above Keith's fingers. The flame danced, lighting up Keith's face as he stared at it, the only sourced of light in the pitch-black cupboard.

With another snap of his fingers, the flame was gone.


End file.
